


Vernon Dursley and the Business Dinner of Subhuman Scum

by Haloferax



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haloferax/pseuds/Haloferax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The possibility of a big new sale for Grunnings ends up with Vernon talking to some rather . . . interesting people.  </p>
<p>And what kind of man has long platinum blond hair like that, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vernon Dursley and the Business Dinner of Subhuman Scum

Vernon first caught wind of the government contract sometime in February. The whole thing was very hush-hush: it seemed that only a small portion of Grunnings’ management knew about it. No one seemed to know much, except that some unnamed government agency was considering using Grunnings’ drills on a new building. 

The prospect surfaced again early in April. Vernon was informed that the opportunity for a sale — a big sale — was starting to look quite likely indeed. Although oddly enough, there was still no mention of who exactly the prospective customers were. 

It was nearly summer when he learned that the agency’s representatives, whoever they were, wanted to meet with someone from Grunnings soon, and that he himself was being considered for the meeting. Vernon breathed a sigh of relief: it seemed that the incident with the Masons had finally been forgotten. Maybe he would glower a little bit less severely at that moronic nephew of his next time he saw him. 

When said nephew came home from that school of his, Vernon was somewhat less horrified than he might normally have been to learn that not only did Harry have a godfather from . . . that world . . . he had a godfather who was some kind of axe murderer of something. Honestly, he felt rather serene about the whole thing. If the Potters had decided to consort with criminals, that was merely further proof of what he had said about them all along, whereas he, Vernon Dursley, was a man who was going places. 

And then, on one fine day in June, his boss called him up to his office. He coughed in a strangely nervous way, asked Vernon to close the door, and said something about the necessity of the topmost secrecy. 

And he told him exactly who their customers were.

* * *

Vernon was apoplectic. 

No, wait. He had already passed through apoplexy in the hour after his boss called him up to his office. He then dove through varying states of nuclear rage, post-apocalyptic devastation, and abyssal terror before, five days later, washing up gently on the shores of eerie calm. 

“Petunia,” he said. 

She bustled over anxiously, a look of concern etched deeply on her face. Now that he thought of it, she most likely had been a bit worried by the fact that he hadn’t spoken for almost a week. Maybe the insane grin had something to do with it too. 

“Petunia, do you know who we are selling to now? We are going to sell tools to build a fine building, Petunia. We are going to build a fine new building for the Ministry of Magic.” 

There was a crash as Petunia dropped the glass she had been holding. Vernon wondered calmly how long it would take her to reach the same stage of pleasant dissociation he had achieved. 

As the date of the dinner meeting drew nearer, Vernon took to ambushing his filthy axe-murderer-apprentice of a nephew with demands for information he didn’t really want to know. 

“I trust they’ll have the decency to at least behave normally in public,” barked Vernon, staring at Harry with the distinct sense that this was, in some way or other, all his fault. He had already insisted that the dinner take place in a restaurant and not in his home; he didn’t want to give his nephew and those people any chances to conspire. 

For his part, Harry felt a sinking sensation. “Er . . . they will. Probably,” he volunteered. “I mean, as long as they know how.” 

Insanity. Vernon was sure that was what it was. His nephew had been off to this idiotic school for three years now, and in that time he had somehow managed to go completely around the bend. 

“ _As long as they know how?_ What, do they brainwash away all memory of normal life at that damn school, or something? They had better remember to behave themselves like they did back before they found out about . . . about your kind.” 

Something clicked in Harry’s head. It was not a pleasant click. It was a click that said, bluntly, ‘Oh no, Uncle Vernon has no idea that not all wizards are Muggle-born, and when he finds out that there are entire families that are magical, he’s going to have a coronary. And then strangle me, probably.’ 

“There are wizarding families.” 

Vernon did not in fact strangle him, but he did look like he was trying to eat his own mustache. Horrible images were swirling in Harry’s head. Somehow, he felt certain that whoever it was Uncle Vernon was going to have dinner with wasn’t going to be Muggle-born. There was no way the Ministry was logical enough to send someone with actual experience with Muggles to talk to a Muggle. He couldn’t help picturing some kindly, vaguely Dumbledore-ish old wizard in flowing amethyst purple robes with a pet toad perched on one shoulder, staring in complete bafflement as Uncle Vernon expired violently in front of him. 

Even if it turned out to be a wizard with genuine interest in Muggles, Harry’s experiences with Mr. Weasley had taught him that interest really didn’t translate to the ability to behave, as Uncle Vernon would put it, normally. 

Oh. No. 

What if it really was Mr. Weasley? Harry didn’t want Mr. Weasley’s love of all things Muggle to be spoiled in such an awful way. He honestly wouldn’t wish dinner with Uncle Vernon on his worst enemy.

* * *

There were three of them: Vernon’s dining guest had also brought his own wife and son. Of the three, the wife was by far the least unacceptable. Okay, so technically she was still wearing a robe. A long, stereotypical robe, in public. Like she was some kind of weird cultist. Which, to be fair, she basically was. But at least on her he could just pretend it was a long dress. 

The one good thing Vernon could see about the couple’s son was that there was certainly no way Dudley would ever want to imitate him. Vernon estimated he was about Dudley’s age, but he was less than half Dudley’s size: he looked distinctly wimpy and underfed, Vernon decided. In a way, he actually felt bad for the kid. It hadn’t been his choice to have parents like that. Poor kid must get beaten up a lot at school. 

But that man. 

Everything about the man sitting at the table was wrong, and under normal circumstances Vernon wouldn’t be caught dead in the same restaurant as him, much less seated at the same table. His hair was unacceptably long and was a platinum blond color that put Vernon in mind of those fashion dolls little girls always had. In his mind’s eye, Vernon could see him preening in front of a mirror for hours. Probably did. Must be nice, not having a real job . . . . 

But his hair wasn’t the worst part. Vernon could see the man’s feet: he was wearing boots made out of some strange, scaly leather. That was all Vernon could see beneath the hem of his robe. 

Notably, he absolutely failed to see anything even remotely resembling the bottom of a trouser leg peeking out from beneath the robes. 

He was about to sit down to a business dinner with a man who _wasn’t wearing any trousers._

Approaching the table, Vernon wasn’t sure entirely what to do. He knew he ought to shake the man’s hand. He also had absolutely no desire to actually touch one of these people. 

His relief at being spared making a decision was overwhelmed by simmering fury at the abysmal manners of his dining guests. Marge had been right, he thought fondly, hoping that she never did remember that whole inflation incident. Poor breeding really did out. Regardless of what kind of fancy robes they wore, they really were the lowest sort. 

Not one of the three seated at the table made any move to greet the Dursleys. Vernon had half-outstretched his hand, and he noticed that the man at the table was staring at it as if he were about to be offered a dead fish. 

Trying as hard as possible to resist the urge to strangle someone, he gave the freaks what he liked to think was a winning smile. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Malfoy.”

* * *

“You understand, Lucius has not felt called to work for the Ministry,” said Mrs. Malfoy in an unusually snobbish tone for a woman who was, after all, stark raving mad scum. “But we are both good friends with the Minister, and we couldn’t turn down a favor like this.” 

Vernon grunted. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was expected to make small talk with these people when he didn’t want to know anything about their lives. “So, what do you do?” he asked Mr. Malfoy, with a grimace that he doubted Malfoy had the brain cells to detect anyway. 

“Do?” asked Malfoy coldly. 

“Unemployed,” Vernon muttered under his breath to Petunia, who sniffed in agreement. 

“I heard there are going to be rainstorms tonight,” said Petunia. She had decided to stick with the only safe avenue of conversation available to her. “Terrible weather we’ve been having. The storm’s supposed to be severe, too. At least, that’s what they said on the telly this morning.” 

“On the what?” wondered Mr. Malfoy, in a tone that communicated subtly but definitively that he didn’t really want to know. 

That tone of his was really starting to get on Vernon’s nerves, even more so than everything else about him. 

“Better be careful once those winds start picking up.” Also, Vernon still hadn’t gotten over that whole trousers thing. “Wouldn’t want to show the whole neighborhood your underpants, eh?” 

Mr. Malfoy continued to stare blankly. 

“Show them my _what_?” 

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

Now that was just gross.

* * *

Malfoy had finished his glass of wine. Vernon noticed this because he kept staring at the empty glass with a look of increasing consternation. His lip curled, and he said, apparently to no one in particular, “Useless idiots.” 

At just that moment, as if by . . . that word that was not allowed in the Dursley household . . . the waitress came by and refilled Malfoy’s glass. That ridiculous sneer remained plastered across his face. 

“Any house-elf worth its keep would have been on it ten minutes ago,” he said in a voice of pure ice. “Filthy Muggles can’t even — ” 

“A house _what_?” asked Dudley incredulously. 

“A house-elf,” Draco replied. The way he enunciated each syllable was almost as if he thought Dudley was stupid, and Vernon absolutely wasn’t having that. He hadn’t put up with that absolute rubbish from Dudley’s teachers, and if anyone thought he was going to put up with it from this lunatic collective, they had another thing coming. 

Anyway, it was awfully rich for people talking about elves to go around acting like anyone else was a moron. 

“Sorry, I’ve never seen a house-elf,” Vernon retorted. “I don’t take LSD with my tea.”

* * *

After what seemed to Vernon like an agonizing eternity, the subject finally turned to drills. 

“The Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that, as its newest building is going to be quite visible to your kind, it should be built using your tools.” 

“For security purposes,” stated Mrs. Malfoy, her tone indicating that she did not think it was for security purposes at all. 

“Right. Certainly not because of the ridiculous favoritism shown to all things Muggle by the current administration. Lovers of Muggles and Mudbloods, running amok in the Ministry of Magic —” 

All right, that was it. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we are in public,” Vernon hissed. “If you could refrain from throwing around that M-word every other sentence — ” 

All three of the Malfoys sniggered slightly. “You know, I’ve been asked to do that before,” Mr. Malfoy said. “This is where I draw the line, though. There are so many bleeding hearts in the Ministry these days, getting themselves all worked up over _words_. In my father’s day, no one was ashamed to call a spade a spade. Now it’s M-word this, Muggle-borns that, everyone being encouraged to pretend that Mudbloods are the same as families that have had magic in our veins for twenty generations.” 

“It’s always ‘That’s a word people heard before their houses burned to the ground,’” added Mrs. Malfoy, nodding. “I mean, they say that like people were getting their houses burned who didn’t deserve it.” 

“Er . . . ” Vernon started. He was feeling more out of his depth than ever. He was startled to hear that wizards were apparently told not to use the word _magic_ : he had been pretty sure they reveled in it. 

“Exactly, Narcissa. Not that anyone at the Ministry of Magic would ever admit that. They let people like Arthur Weasley go around making laws now, and he’s proud to be a blood traitor. Collecting all sorts of Muggle garbage, happy to let some Mudblood girl traipse around his home . . . ”

“Granger,” interjected Draco. “No one’s a bigger Mudblood than Granger, but you should see the way she has half of the professors wrapped around her finger.” Draco sounded distinctly sullen about that last part. Yeah, thought Vernon. The kid definitely got beaten up at school. Apparently by a girl. 

“Of course, Potter thinks she’s brilliant, too,” Draco continued snidely. “Hermione Granger, the magical Mudblood.” 

Vernon’s displeasure at the Malfoys’ continued use of the M-word was nothing compared to how he felt about Dudley’s particularly inopportune next sentence. 

“Potter? Not Harry Potter?” 

(For once, Vernon was forced to admit that possibly, just possibly, Dudley wasn’t actually perfect.) 

Draco’s head snapped up. “How do you know Potter? What, does he go and play with Muggle children on holiday when he gets bored with how poor the Weasleys are?” 

Vernon made a desperate grab to shove his hand over Dudley’s mouth, and saw Petunia rushing even more desperately to do the same, but it was all to no avail: they both misaimed slightly, and their hands sunk uselessly into their son’s fat rolls. 

“He’s my cousin,” Dudley continued, apparently unfazed. 

Mr. Malfoy’s cold gray eyes lit up in a way that terrified Vernon. It was his worst nightmare. People were associating him with the Potters. 

“Harry Potter’s relatives,” he mused. “My goodness. I had no idea. Ah yes, but Potter’s mother was one of your kind after all, wasn’t she?” 

For a moment, Vernon was afraid Petunia was actually going to fall out of her chair. As it was, she had gone chalk-white. 

“She was absolutely not one of my kind,” she said stiffly. “She was a . . . a . . . She was certainly one of your lot.” Her face contorted as she weighed her desire to express exactly what Lily was against her refusal to actually utter the word _witch_. 

“Ridiculous,” Mrs. Malfoy snapped. “Lucius, listen to them prattling. Demanding to be treated as one of us. Next thing you know, they’ll be asking us admit pigs into Hogwarts. I don’t care what complete lies the Ministry tries to put into the textbooks these days; my grandfather campaigned to change the status of Muggles once and for all from Beings to Beasts, and I for one . . . ” she trailed off in apparent irritation with the world at large. 

She turned to Petunia and uttered the most horrible sentence Vernon had ever heard someone say to another person: “I see no difference whatsoever between you and Lily Potter.” 

“Still, Harry Potter’s aunt and uncle.” Mr. Malfoy continued, in an oddly dreamy tone. Vernon was horrified that his nephew was apparently so well-known in . . . that world. “What a rare treat. I had the privilege of knowing James and Lily Potter, back . . . well, shall we say, back in the old days.” 

Before Vernon could protest, Malfoy had shoved his wand into Vernon’s hand. Vernon couldn’t get his mind off the thought of how much hand sanitizer he was going to have to buy on the way back. Maybe he should even scour the top layer of skin off his palms, just to be on the safe side. Never in his life had he expected he would someday be handed a magic wand by a man who went out in public not wearing any trousers or underwear. 

He would have very much liked to drop the offending wand, but Malfoy was gripping his hand too tightly. He was a lot stronger than Vernon would have expected. 

“Here, Muggle, let’s have some fun. Humor me. Say _morsmordre_.” 

Vernon found himself unable to say anything at all. His throat had apparently sealed itself in protest against the ridiculous things he was being forced to endure. 

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s not as if you’ll be able to do it anyway. But it would amuse me to hear a Muggle say it. Look, it’s simple; even you can do it: _morsmordre. Morsmordre_!” 

“ _Lucius_ ,” snapped Mrs. Malfoy. She had stood up suddenly and gone slightly pale. “What — if — Fudge — hears — ?” 

Malfoy muttered something that contained the phrases, “Muggle anyway,” and “Modify their memories.” 

Vernon looked over at just the right moment to notice that Draco was grinning from ear to ear. It was kind of creepy, actually. The boy was definitely mentally sub-normal. Utterly mad and pathetically wimpy: no wonder he got beaten up by that Granger girl. 

Suddenly, something seemed to have occurred to Mr. Malfoy. He smiled as well. No surprise there, thought Vernon. Kid had to have gotten his sub-normality from somewhere. 

“Yes, modify their memories,” he said with a laugh. 

Mrs. Malfoy was looking beginning to look rather resigned. She sat back down. 

Malfoy snatched his wand back from Vernon. 

_Hm_ , thought Vernon. He realized that he was starting to go as mad as these people, because he was feeling in an uncharacteristically philosophical frame of mind. _Now, is it better to be seen holding a magic wand in public, or is it better to have a wand pointed at me by a maniac who keeps smiling like that?_

Because Malfoy was now brandishing the wand like it was some kind of weapon. Oddly, the grin had vanished from Draco’s face, replaced by a perplexed look. He was staring at Dudley. 

“What’re you looking at, fatty?” 

Dudley was staring at Mr. Malfoy — no, at something behind Mr. Malfoy — with a positively rapturous look. His chins jiggled slightly in anticipation. 

Then several things happened all at once. 

Just as Mr. Malfoy started to scream, “ _Cruci_ –” Dudley pounced. 

Well, if Mr. Malfoy hadn’t wanted to be tackled, he shouldn’t have been standing between Dudley and the dessert cart. 

Dudley jumped up with surprising agility for someone the size of a car and ran after the cart, which was now being pushed away extremely quickly by a slightly shell-shocked waitress. (Vernon’s heart swelled with pride to notice this. See? That school nurse really hadn’t known what she was talking about when she said Dudders was out of shape.) 

Mr. Malfoy sat up a few seconds later. There was some kind of raspberry sauce dripping down his hair, and what looked like an overturned dish of creme brulee was perched on top of his head like a fez. 

Malfoy gave Vernon the most venomous look possible coming from a man with a dessert on his head. He thrust his hand off to his right — where it landed with a _splat_ in a very sad and fragmented plate of what was originally some kind of pastry. Malfoy frowned. He looked from side to side with increasing consternation. 

“Narcissa, where is my wand?” 

In the ensuing commotion, the Dursleys made their escape.

* * *

Vernon didn’t quite feel like himself. If anyone had told him several months ago that he was going to lose the sale and be happy about it, he would have said they were as made as that damned nephew of his. 

As it was, he found himself unable to stop smiling at the memory of Malfoy sitting there with that dish of creme brulee on his head, giving him that furious look, as if a freak like him and his silly magic tricks could somehow pose a threat to normal, right-thinking people. 

“Did you hear them?” Petunia sniffed. “Faking those posh accents and everything. I mean, they were good at it, I’ll give them that, but . . . ” 

“No class whatsoever,” agreed Vernon. “I just don’t know, Petunia. What’s the Prime Minster thinking, giving them their own Ministry? Barely human. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place shortly before the beginning of GoF. Now you know why Lucius had to go and attack some Muggles at the World Cup.


End file.
